Clarisse's Fate
by Eliorah Bellamy
Summary: Everyone who's read Fahrenheit 451 wonders what happened to the bright, unusual girl named Clarisse McClellan; the one who inspired her friend Guy Montag to find the truth about what he's done for his entire life. Here is what I hope her destiny was. This is my first piece of fan fiction ever, so please give me some suggestions on how to improve it!
1. Chapter 1

Clarisse McClellan, a pale, dark-eyed girl of about seventeen, peeks through the curtains at the nighttime world outside.

_If I am going to leave after all,_ she thinks to herself, scanning the deserted streets and rows after rows of dark houses, _I think I should leave now. At least everyone is inside._

She had been planning her escape for a long time.

Unfortunately, for her, there wasn't any other way. At school, she was labelled antisocial and regarded by her classmates as an oddball. The teachers consistently took notes on her behaviour, and policemen always searched her after she told them her name, allegedly because of her bad family record. More worrisomely, now that she was almost an adult, she would be forced to choose a boring, tedious job and work away boring, tedious years at it. Nothing could be worse.

But on the other hand, if she gets caught, she will lose everything: her mother and father, her crackpot uncle, the collection of volumes they gave to her... right now, she would be leaving all of that anyway, but her family would move away, go live where no one knows the girl named Clarisse. If, for some reason, someone was to ask, they'd tell them she was run over on the highway and no one would ask a single question more: they could easily be reported for reminding people of their deceased relatives.

And then, one by one, in their own time, Clarisse's family would also escape from that forsaken city and meet her at the old house far out in the country that once belonged to her great-great-grandparents. There they would spend the rest of their days, laughing and reading the long years away. It will be that simple.

But tonight, it will be herself who will blaze the trail for the rest of them.

Shuddering ever so slightly, like a leaf in the autumn breeze, Clarisse grabs the overflowing pack from her bed and swings it over her shoulder. Its heaviness weighs her down, bending her back into an uncanny slouch that can only be corrected with its removal.

In the bag are enough packets of dry food to last her for months, as well as a few bottles of water, some sets of clean clothes and, nestled between their impenetrable folds, a copy of Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, and Wuthering Heights. They all debated over whether or not she should bring them along with her: if Clarisse is found with even one book, she will be sent straight to the insane asylum, the house will be searched and, with the discovery of dozens more, burned, and they will be separated from each other indefinitely. But, without stories' illusions of human company, what would her family come home to? Ultimately, they all agreed to let her take three of her favourite novels with her.

Quietly, as though there is a sleeping spy in the house, Clarisse opens the door and, making sure it does not creak, descends the staircase into the shadow-cast foyer where she could barely see a foot in front of her. Feeling around, her hand closes over a small, spherical object on the door.

Suddenly, a moment of doubt almost forces her to flee back to her room, to eternal safety and satisfaction.

_ Do I really want to leave? _She wonders._ I can refuse. They will understand._

But then she thinks about her future if she stays. She sees herself burning her books, their delicate butterfly-wing pages fluttering up into the air, ablaze with colour, only to fall back to earth as ashes. She sees herself at a dingy factory assembling seashell radios, eight hours a day, five days a week, for the rest of her life, as long as it might be. She sees herself in a room with those terrible parlor walls, martini in hand, talking about nothing to people who are not real...

_ No,_ she thinks, shaking the thought off, _I do not want to remain here for a second longer._

Taking a deep breath, Clarisse steels herself. What she will do from this point on will determine not only hers, but her family's, fate.

She turns the handle. The door opens and she slips out, soundlessly, onto the moonlit road that seems to stretch out in both directions for infinity.


	2. Chapter 2

The night is always so different from the day. All the dust is blown away by the breeze and the scent of newly cut grass wafts through the cool air. No cars zoom by. No people yell at each other from open windows. All is calm, quiet, and peaceful. As much as she wants to just stop for a moment and smell the neighbours' roses, Clarisse keeps walking, forced forward by the silence.

That is the unnerving part: the silence. When you are alone on an empty street at night and up to no good, at that, you constantly feels as if someone is following you, watching your every move. She finds herself looking over her shoulder every few seconds, watching the shadows on the pavement. Even the slightest scraping of gravel behind her sends her heart pounding.

Fortunately, the train station is not far away. Clutching her bag, Clarisse waits for the last train at the platform. The long minutes tick by, one by one, until the train arrives, huffing and puffing as if after a sprint. No one gets out. Clarisse boards the train.

Except for the conductor, she is the only one in the wagon. Seating herself in the corner, Clarisse gazes out the window. As the train picks up speed, everything becomes an indistinguishable blur. Clarisse tries to pick out shapes in the darkness to keep herself from thinking about what she will do after.

"Riverfield Station... Union Station... Cherrytree Station... Oakhill Station... Crowe Station..." the robotic voice announces as the train comes to a stop one, two, three, four, five times. Still, no one gets in, but the voice continues to list the stops, its tone never changing.

Slowly, the buildings outside become smaller, more and more sporadic, until all that they pass by is trees.

That's when the conductor speaks up.

"Excuse me, miss," he calls, turning towards her, but not quite meeting her eyes. Clarisse almost jumps out of her seat. Unaware of her reaction, he talks on, "where are you going so far from home at such an ungodly hour?"

_Oh heavens, _Clarisse racks her mind for the most sensible answer,_ I wasn't prepared for this! What if he'll search me? All will be gone!_

"You see, sir, we went for a ride around the countryside the other day," she bluffs, hoping he will believe her, "and I accidentally dropped my mother's favourite gold bracelet out of the window. I'm going back to find it."

"Fair enough," the conductor replies and turns back to stare emptily at the wall, the seashell radio bumbling ever so softly in his ear with its tales of romance and celebration and pleasure.

Only then Clarisse realizes how much the dark-haired, bronze-skinned man looks like her fireman friend, Guy Montag.

Guy Montag. The name burns through her mind without him there to douse it. Guy Montag. He isn't coming with her, not now, not ever. What will become of him, the unusual man who listened to her stories and looked her right in the eyes? How many more books will he burn wrongfully, reluctantly, compulsively? A tear streams down her alabaster cheek and she hastens to wipe it off.

_I can only hope that he lives a happy life._


	3. Chapter 3

A half hour later, the train jerks to a final halt at the last platform.

"Frogpond Station," the speakers crackle one last time.

"Have a nice day," the conductor mumbles as she dismounts, impervious to the fact that it is still very much the night.

Clarisse waits until the train is far in the distance before she begins her trek.

"Walk south about five miles from Frogpond Station and you'll come to it sooner or later," her uncle told her. Unfortunately, he could not draw a map, for every last scrap of unmarked paper was removed from their house a long time ago.

Clarisse follows the road until it tapers into a gravel path, then a trodden one, and at last a clump of knee-high weeds. She kicks at them in frustration, but they only spring back up again. Well, what else to do? She lifts the hem of her dress up to her knees and plods on, even though she's awfully tired and somewhat thirsty. For two hours she continues, pushing through thick woods, wading across shallow streams and trudging through viscid mud. The moon sets under the horizon and the dark sky becomes alive with the first rays of dawn.

As she sweeps the last branches to the side, Clarisse almost gasps with astonishment. Before her is a field of strawberries, bright and refreshing in the morning light!

_Could this be a dream?_ She wonders, pinching her arm with one hand, plucking a berry from a bush with the other. _Strawberry season ended in August!_

Vaguely, she remembers her mother telling her that, at the old house, berries grew until the first snow. She must be almost there!

She gathers up as many as she can in the folds of her dress and sits down, bringing one to her mouth. The sweet juice drips down her chin and she, smiling, remembers the years when they had a strawberry bush back in the city. Every summer, it bore delicious red fruit, until the dreadful day when it grew over the fence and was removed.

Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, Clarisse stands up and surveys the area. Judging by the fields, which were obviously sown by someone a long time ago, she cannot possibly be far from her new home now.

And then, she sees it. At first, it seems distant and surreal, like a mirage in the desert, but as she nears it, it begins to look much like described: wooden, two stories high, brown roof and shutters. Only when the old weathervane comes into view does she begin to run.

The door jars open welcomingly when she pushes it. Looking around, Clarisse's eyes tear up. It looks so much like her house back in the city! There is the cuckoo clock, and there is the fireplace, and there is the coffee table... the only thing that is really different is that this house has a porch. On it, four rocking chairs are arranged almost as if they were waiting for the McClellan family, after all those decades, to return.

Clarisse sits in the one closest to the field and takes a book out of her bag. Suddenly, she realizes how truly, impossibly _ridiculous_ everything is, how she couldn't have ever, in a million years, imagined that she'd end up in a place as beautiful as this.

"Why, I'm free, I'm finally free!" she whispers, taking in a deep breath of the clean, fresh air.


End file.
